


When the Wind Blows

by AnathemaAuthoress



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 11:46:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14670417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnathemaAuthoress/pseuds/AnathemaAuthoress
Summary: He's just going to keep waiting.





	When the Wind Blows

Morty stared out the window at the opalescent drops streaking the pane and painting the grayed-out ground in rippling waves of colorless sludge. He felt like crying, but couldn't summon it and found himself wondering listlessly when last he'd felt anything release from inside that had actually made him feel any better.

He hissed and unclenched his fingers from where they'd dug into the cheap wood paneling that lined the window's edge. He stared at the crescent moons etched there, dozens of them. He wondered for one hopeful and hollow instant that they were Rick's, then felt apathy set in once more when the crisp shape and repugnant repetition made it clear that was not the case.

"Jesus, Dad. 'Cause, you know, you have so much to be sad about." Morty rolled his eyes and laughed awkwardly, but it petered out when he remembered he was alone.

The house was eerily quiet, dimmed of all the buzz and hum that so often emitted from one electronic or another. Only the refrigerator moaned on with the drawling cry of a wheezing animal. Morty didn't know if he found it comforting or distracting.

He was pacing. It wasn't clear when he'd tugged his gaze from the outside world, but now all he saw was the edge of the table, the top of a chair, the corner of the table, the crooked chair, long span, dad's seat, corner, and over and over again until he was dizzy. His fingers locked in the curls of his hair and he tugged once to calm himself down, twice to wake himself up. Three times just to hurt. Remember that it hurts.

He needed to stop waiting, stop looking, stop longing. "No one's coming," he said sternly. His voice was firm and quake-less, like he was assuredly alerting a child of a very vital fact.

The rain kept coming down, so hard it made everything in the distance look that same hazy gray of washed out clouds. The patter on the roof and paving grew so loud it swallowed up the noise of the kitchen, the weakened beast finally hunted down and killed by the predator.

Morty was gazing out again, the trickles reflected in the whites of his eyes. He pressed both hands to the glass and felt a chill that started at his palms and sliced its way up his arms and into his chest. His breathing shallowed and his lungs tightened.

"He's not coming." This time there was the slightest waver. Like reciting his alphabet, but he wasn't quite sure about LMNOP. He swallowed down the lump rising in his throat.

Just because he hadn't, didn't mean he wanted to. Just because he couldn't, didn't mean he needed too. "H-he's not coming back." _Say it again._

"H-he's...he's not-" His lower lip shuddered but his brows stayed woven, still angry, still above it all. "Rick's not coming back! He's not! He's not!" His voice rose louder and it would. It would rise and it would fluxuate and recycle until he believed it, until he understood it. Until he didn't just hate it. He _knew_ it.

His hands flew down and gripped the edge of the window, pried it open in one clean rush and slammed it upward. The wind rushed in all at once and made the curtains dance, flapping and frolicking against Morty's sides, striking him as the cold wind did the same.

Water rushed in and drenched the carpet, the careless drapery, and Morty's skin and hair and yellow shirt until it was pressed flush to his flesh and he could feel it in his bones. He bent forward, leaned out the open window and screamed. "He isn't coming!" But the winds swallowed up his words like he was prey now.

Beth might have chided him for throwing open the window, Jerry might have denoted that screaming into the abyss never helped anybody, Summer might have been smug with an edge of sympathy. Might have. But Rick wasn't coming back. No one was.

Morty's words broke into an echoless sob as the raindrops kissed his skin like daggers. Metal felt like ice under the palms of his hands, the wet wood like quicksand ready to swallow him. Violent shudders raced through his form, brought on from within as much as without.

Yet even as he gasped and his sobs were broken and booming like thunder, no tears found his face. Morty figured, even in his plight, that the rain was surely enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this last night during a word war with some of the other R and M big-bangers. I should probably start on my actual story soon.


End file.
